He didn’t say any more, but I understood that he meant much more than that. So I usually reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious characters to me. Reserving judgments gives infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is given out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I have to admit that it has a limit. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more excursions into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was free from my reaction – Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have a sincere scorn. There was something gorgeous about him, some sharp sensitivity to the promises of life. It was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan; the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one[1] and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

I graduated from Yale University[2] in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in the Great War[3]. I came back restless. The Middle West was not the warm centre of the world any longer, now it seemed like the ragged edge of the universe – so I decided to go East and learn the bond business[4]. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two[5].

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in the country, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a bungalow at eighty dollars a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to go to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had an old Dodge[6] and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast.

And so with the sunshine and green leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar confidence that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities[7], and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold their shining secrets. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. It was a matter of chance that I rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that island which extends itself to the east of New York – and where there are two unusual formations of land looking like a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a bay.

I lived at West Egg, the less fashionable of the two. My house was at the very tip of the egg, and squeezed between two huge villas rented for twelve or fifteen thousand dollars a season. The one on my right was a colossal thing by any standard, with a tower on one side, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an ugly thing, but it was small, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires – all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin[8], and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.

Daisy’s husband had been a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute excellence at the age of twenty-one that everything afterward tastes like disappointment. His family were enormously wealthy, but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought a number of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there wherever rich people got together to play polo. This was a permanent move[9], said Daisy over the telephone.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I hardly knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion[10], overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over brick walks and gardens. The front was broken by a line of French windows[11], glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a strong straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a haughty manner. Two shining arrogant eyes gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body – a cruel body.

There was a touch of paternal contempt in his voice, even toward people he liked – and there were men at New Haven who had hated him.

«Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final», he seemed to say, «just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are». We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him.

We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch and then walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space. The windows were partly open. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the ceiling.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous sofa on which two young women were lying. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which could fall. If she saw me she gave no hint of it.

The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise – she leaned slightly forward, then she laughed, and I laughed too and came into the room.

«I’m p-paralyzed with happiness». She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was her manner. She murmured that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker.

Miss Baker barely nodded at me, and then quickly tipped her head back again – the object she was balancing had obviously given her something of a fright.

I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down. Her face was sad and lovely, she had bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, and there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget.

I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

«Do they miss me?» she cried ecstatically.

«The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore».

«How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!» Then she suddenly added: «You ought to see the baby».

«I’d like to».

«She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?»

«Never».

«Well, you ought to see her. She’s…»

Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

«What are you doing, Nick?»

«I’m a bond man[12]».

«Who with?»

I told him.

«Never heard of them», he remarked decisively.

This annoyed me.

«You will[13]», I answered shortly. «You will if you stay in the East».

«Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t worry», he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me. «I’d be a fool to live anywhere else».

At this point Miss Baker said: «Absolutely!» with such suddenness that I started – it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. She yawned and stood up.

«I’m stiff», she complained, «I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember».

«Don’t look at me», Daisy said, «I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon».

I enjoyed looking at Miss Baker. She was a slender, small breasted girl, keeping her back straight. Her gray eyes looked back at me with polite curiosity. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

«You live in West Egg», she remarked contemptuously. «I know somebody there».

«I don’t know a single…»

«You must know Gatsby».

«Gatsby?» asked Daisy. «What Gatsby?»

Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as if he were moving a checker to another square.

The two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch, open toward the sunset.

«We ought to plan something», yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

«All right», said Daisy. «What’ll we plan?» She turned to me helplessly: «What do people plan?»

Before I could answer she looked with a frightened expression at her little finger.

«Look!» she complained; «I hurt it».

We all looked – the knuckle was black and blue.

«You did it, Tom», she said accusingly. «That’s what I get for marrying a brute, a great, big, hulking physical specimen ofa…»

«I hate that word hulking», objected Tom crossly, «even in kidding».[14]

«Hulking», insisted Daisy.

Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, but it was an uneasy talk. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close.

«You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy», I confessed on my second glass of red wine. «Can’t you talk about crops or something?»

I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.

«Civilization’s going to pieces», said Tom. «I am a terrible pessimist about things now. Have you read ‘The Rise of the Colored Empires’ by Goddard?»

«Why, no», I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

«Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will disappear. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved».

«Tom’s getting very thoughtful», said Daisy sadly. «He reads deep books with long words in them».

«Well, these books are all scientific», insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. «It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things».

«We’ve got to beat them down», whispered Daisy.

«You ought to live in California…» began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.

«This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and…» After some hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me. «– And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization – oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?»

There was something pathetic in his concentration. Then, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch.

Soon the butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear. Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside.

Suddenly Daisy threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said «Sh!» in a warning voice. A subdued passionate murmur was clear in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear.

«This Mr. Gatsby is my neighbor», I said.

«Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens».

«Is something happening?» I said innocently.

«You mean to say you don’t know?» said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. «I thought everybody knew».

«I don’t».

«Why…» she said hesitantly, «Tom’s got some woman in New York».

«Got some woman?» I repeated.

Miss Baker nodded.

«She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?»

Almost at once Tom and Daisy were back at the table.

«It couldn’t be helped![15]» cried Daisy with tense gaiety.

She sat down, glanced at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: «I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale. His song is so beautiful!» Her voice sang: «It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?»

«Very romantic», he said.

The telephone rang inside, and Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I was conscious of wanting to look directly at every one, and yet to avoid all eyes.

Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library. Trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a bamboo bench.

Daisy took her face in her hands, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.

«We don’t know each other very well, Nick», she said suddenly. «Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding».

«I wasn’t back from the war».

«That’s true». She hesitated. «Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything».

Obviously she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned to the subject of her daughter.

«I suppose she talks, and – eats, and everything».

«Oh, yes». She looked at me absently. «Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?»

«Very much».

«Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an absolutely abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool – that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool».

«You see I think everything’s terrible», she went on in a convinced way. «Everybody thinks so – the most advanced people. And I KNOW. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything». She laughed with thrilling scorn. «Sophisticated – God, I’m sophisticated!»

The moment her voice stopped, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to extract a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with a grin on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.

Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light.

Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long sofa and she read aloud to him from the SATURDAY EVENING POST.

When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.

«To be continued[16]», she said, putting the magazine on the table, «in our next issue».

She stood up.

«Ten o’clock», she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. «Time for this good girl to go to bed».

«Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow», explained Daisy, «over at Westchester».

«Oh – you’re Jordan BAKER».

I knew now why her face was familiar – its scornful expression had looked out at me from many pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.

«Good night», she said softly. «Wake me at eight, won’t you».

«If you’ll get up».

«I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you soon».

«Of course you will», confirmed Daisy. «In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of – oh – fling you together. You know – lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing…»

«Good night», called Miss Baker from the stairs. «I haven’t heard a word».

«She’s a nice girl», said Tom after a moment. «They shouldn’t let her run around the country this way».

«Who shouldn’t to?» inquired Daisy coldly.

«Her family».

«Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her».

Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.

«Is she from New York?» I asked quickly.

«From Louisville. Our girlhood was passed together there».

«Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk[17] on the veranda?» asked Tom suddenly.

«Did I?» She looked at me.

«I don’t remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did».

«Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick», he advised me.

I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light.

Their attention rather touched me and made them less remotely rich – nevertheless, I was confused as I drove away. It seemed to me that Daisy had to rush out of the house, with the child in arms – but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he «had some woman in New York» was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book.

When I reached my estate at West Egg I sat for a while on a grass mower in the yard. The wind had blown off, the night was bright. Suddenly I saw that I was not alone – fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets looking at the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.

I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that could be an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he showed that he wanted to be alone – he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and he was trembling. I glanced in the direction of the sea – and distinguished nothing except a single green light, tiny and far away, that might be the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

Chapter 2

About half way between West Egg and New York the motor road joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile. This is a valley of ashes – a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke.

The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small dirty river, and, when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the depressing scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress.

The fact that he had a mistress was well-known. He went to popular restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, walked about, chatting with whoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her – but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash heaps he jumped to his feet and, taking me by my elbow, literally forced me from the car.

«We’re getting off», he insisted. «I want you to meet my girl».

I followed him over a low railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred yards along the road. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant; the third was a garage with a sign «Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars bought and sold». And I followed Tom inside.

The interior was poor; the only car visible was the dust- covered wreck of a Ford in a dark corner. Soon the owner himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. He was a blond, sad man, pale, and slightly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes.

«Hello, Wilson, old man», said Tom, slapping him in a friendly way on the shoulder. «How’s business?»

«I can’t complain», answered Wilson unconvincingly. «When are you going to sell me that car?»

«Next week; my man is working on it now».

«He works pretty slow, doesn’t he?»

«No, he doesn’t», said Tom coldly. «And if you feel that way about it, maybe I’d better sell it somewhere else after all».

«I don’t mean that», explained Wilson quickly. «I just meant…»

His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs, and in a moment the fleshy figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and slightly stout, but she carried her body sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine[18], contained no gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, looking into his eyes. Then, without turning around, she spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:

«Get some chairs, why don’t you, so somebody can sit down».

«Oh, sure», agreed Wilson hurriedly, and went toward the little office. A white ashen dust covered his dark suit and his pale hair as it covered everything in the area – except his wife, who moved close to Tom.

«I want to see you», said Tom. «Get on the next train».

«All right».

«I’ll meet you by the newsstand». She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson appeared with two chairs from his office door.

We waited for her down the road and out of sight.

«Terrible place, isn’t it», said Tom.

«Awful».

«It’s good for her to get away».

«Doesn’t her husband object?»

«Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so dumb».

So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York – or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat in another car.

She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin[19], which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. Upstairs, in the echoing drive she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with gray upholstery, and in this we got away from the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the front glass.

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